Mud, Blood, and Magic 2 Chapter 4

Ellie awaited him in the second trench, directing a throng of medics and their assistants while Mountainbreaker worked at setting up a detonator box. 

As soon as Sam crossed the boundary of the connecting trench into the secondary line, Ellie nodded to Mountainbreaker, and he connected a wire. 

“Brace yourself.” He warned calmly to those around him before bellowing: “EXPLOSION! EXPLOSION! EXPLOSION!” 

The Dwarven sapper pushed down on the plunger, and Sam turned over his shoulder just in time to see the dirt several hundred yards behind him bulge and lift up like a wave as the entire trench ceased to exist. 

As if triggered sympathetically by Mountainbreaker’s detonation, a wall of dirt began to branch out from either side of the outer trench he’d blown, slowly winding its way around the plains of Gerra like a moat. 

‘I wonder how many Darabadians that blast took with it?’ Sam idly wondered, being more or less forced along by Kara to one of the medics. 

It took several hours, but he and the many other wounded were all ferried back to one of the medical buildings hastily established in Gerra, his wounds were treated, and he was released back into the wild. The entire time, he was also having to talk with Ellie, Amy, and Kara regarding coordination and future plans. 

Supplies were low, but there was a plan for that. 

In a weeks time, General Keyrinnjha would organize a positively massive logistics operation to resupply the Regiment. 

The entire Lenitian front line would press the attack and fix the Darabadians in their current positions as a small army of wyverns airlifted supplies to them, then extract the wounded back to safety. Just to top it all off, more wyverns would be providing air support while the supply units were completing their task. 

The entire operation likely fell under the sphere of “top secret”, or whatever the Lenitian equivalent was. The General was pulling every available air asset from the front, leaving only the ones that were actively engaged with Darabadian wyvern units. 

He believed he could reasonably hold out that long, especially now that the lines were a lot more stable after the retreat to the second set of trenchworks. 

From here at the top of the semi-destroyed keep, the old lines looked like a knotted scar on the earth, no longer having any depth to them. They looked rounded off and rough at this distance. 

Sam heard footsteps coming up the stone steps, turning to see Henfri standing in the doorway with a hard-to-read expression on her face. 

“May I… enter?” she asked in a voice that felt far too small for her. 

“Yeah, sure Henfri - what’s wrong?” Sam accommodated, waving his hand at the pile of building stones beside his creaky chair. 

It worked better as a seat for her than anything else. 

Henfri set Procjze down on its bipod, then sat down herself, hunching forward as she took in a deep inhale through her nose. 

She seemed to take a moment longer to decide what to say, or more likely, how to say it. 

“I am… sorry for my outburst today.” Henfri apologized, still not looking him in the eyes. “I was upset. There were soldiers I knew holding that section of trench. When we got there, they were just… gone.

“Every day, more die - people I share a jezelotz with - a battle-bond.” Henfri hung her head, clenching her fists tight. “You send me to every section of the line when you find a fearsome enemy Mage. I wait for hours, days in the dirt beside these men, kill the spell-caster, and return to you. 

“In doing that, I make friends in every crater, every bend of these trenches.” 

Henfri scratched at the back of her head and growled. 

“Where is there glory, what meaning does bravery have if the men I save get ground to paste as soon as I leave?” 

Sam’s breath caught as he considered how to answer her. 

This was by far the most serious he’d ever seen Henfri, and her words felt weighted with an uncharacteristic wisdom that was almost counter-intuitive to the bubbly, exuberant Drake-Kin he knew. 

In truth, there wasn’t a good reply. 

Sam was dealing with a remarkably similar weight bearing down on his own shoulders. All those men Henfri was talking about were dying on his orders. 

Things were simpler when he was just a sergeant on his homeworld. 

“My mother once told me that war was not a good place to find glory, honor, or friendship - that it was only a haven for those who sought power.” Henfri continued as Sam tried to put together his own thoughts and experiences into something she could connect to. “I did not believe her. When Darabad killed my cousin at his schoolhouse in Sulesti, I sought vengeance. 

“I ran to the recruiting office on the border of Lenit, seeking to right that slight against my family.” Henfri’s jaw muscles flexed as her eyes finally lifted to the vista of death and destruction out the destroyed wall of the tower. “Instead, I have only ended up losing even more. But I have found you, found Ellie and the others - a family I wish to call my own, and I fear every day that loss. 

“Am I really of such little morals that I care less for my men than you? Am I… selfish?” 

Henfri turned to Sam with a confused and hurt expression, her right eye searching his face. 

Her left was an empty socket. 

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dealing with something similar, Henfri,” Sam offered after a long moment of eye contact. He looked back out to the view beyond the tower, and pulled out his revolver. “When Darabad first encircled us, we took a lot of losses. We would lose a trench, a squad here, a platoon there. 

“I thought I could fix it, reshuffle the deck and save them. So, I’d hear the news, put this to my skull, and pull the trigger.

“I must’ve done it a thousand times.” 

Sam snorted derisively and shook his head. Running his tongue along his teeth, he finally put the next pieces of his thoughts together in a more suitable way. 

“For you, it’s been two or three weeks since we left the pass.

“For me, it’s been months. 

“Months of fail, die, fail, die, fail, die - mostly by my own hand.” 

Sam popped open the top of the revolver and extricated a round, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I swear, this gun has killed me far more than any of them.” Sam stuffed the bullet back into the weapon, closed it, and re-holstered it. “After the umpteenth time, I realized something. 

“I’ve been approaching this fight like it was my old world. Like I was still training resistance fighters in the desert, fighting a weak force of insurgents or an apathetic third-world government. 

“This war is different than the one I was trained to fight - there’s no medivac helicopter coming to save me, no air superiority, just the meat-grinder of humanity. It’s far closer to wars that were fought almost a century before I was born than the ones I was a part of.”

Henfri’s expression had changed by the time he looked back to her. Instead of confusion, there was understanding in her slow nod. 

“There’s an ugly math to this kind of fight. The men here are soldiers, and soldiers realize that we might die. It’s just the nature of the job. If Senire is right about the future, then every Darabadian we kill, the longer we stall them, the less they can do later. 

“Hell, we fight them hard enough here, we might be able to prevent another Sulesti.”

Henfri’s forehead furrowed when he said the name, the faintest hint of anger visible there. 

“I’ve heard a lot about what happened to the people that lived there. It was genocide.” Sam explained, rising from his seat and walking towards the blown-out hole. “Trading a regiment to stop another city being burned to the ground, hundreds of thousands of civilians killed? 

“Yeah, I’ll take that deal.”

Henfri leaned back in her seat and raised her chin at him, a curious brow raised. 

"Will the lives of these men be worth it?” 

“God I hope so.” The words left Sam’s mouth before he could put together a better answer. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose and added: “that was the… hardest realization of the last few months of dying and trying again. 

“That I can’t even save my own men. I might be able to save them for a day or two, postpone an attack, position a gun in the right place, but eventually, it’s just going to turn out the same way.

“The only thing I can do in the end is make sure I spend their lives wisely.” 

Henfri’s expression steeled, but after a moment she nodded deeply. 

“My mother has said very much the same.” Henfri noted, pushing herself off the pile of debris she used as a chair to walk towards him. She leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the gap from him and exhaled deeply. “I simply wish there was a way to get back at them. To take the fight off the shoulders of our men.” 

Sam smiled wryly as he met Henfri’s good eye, an idea coming to mind that would do just that.

“You know, Henfri, if you’ve got a minute - I just might have something.” 

  *

“Corporal, open it up.” Sam instructed to the armory door guard with a nod as he led Henfri down the last steps to the basement. 

The man complied, snapping to attention before inserting a key into the lock of a solid metal door and pulling it open. 

“I have… been to the armory before, Sam.” Henfri informed in an intrigued but nonetheless confused tone. 

“Yeah, but I’ve been putting together something I think would fit your skillset really well.” Sam answered, leading Henfri to the back of the long, hallway-like room. 

“Ah, Cap’n Volkjel, that ya oot there?” the thickly-accented voice of the unofficial regimental armorer echoed through the thickly packed weapon racks. 

“It is, Ironleg! Did you get that project finished yet?” Sam called back, steering himself between the helter-skelter organization of Kerajim Ironleg.

Kerajim Ironleg was something of an oddity in Gerra. 

He wasn’t military, in any way, shape, or form. 

From what Sam had gathered in their talks, Ironleg was a weaponsmith that had lived in Gerra his whole life, not to mention his family, who had apparently also inhabited the area for generations. During the final evacuations, the man had forced his whole family to leave, but had chosen to remain himself. 

Ironleg was old, with Kara explaining that he was likely well into the early triple digits. This was the crux of why he had not left yet - he’d already had his children, and them their children. 

Gerra was Ironleg’s home, and he would not leave it in its hour of need. 

For Sam, it was a good thing too, as the man had immediately set to work with a plethora of tasks for the Regiment, including modifying rifles for the more slightly-built races under Sam’s command, repairing damaged equipment, and the reason Sam was here today:

“Special Projects.”

“Oh aye! An’ she’s a beaut’!” Ironleg guffawed as Sam turned the corner to see a series of interconnected workbenches covered in orderly rows of freshly-cared for weapons. The man himself sat in his wheelchair, poking at something on a rifle with a red-hot metal dowel. 

Ironleg looked up with a bright smile beneath his bushy white handlebar mustache. 

“Ah, tha’ project, hmm? Oh it’s ready, a’ight.” Ironleg gripped the wheels of his chair and threw them in opposite directions, whirling around wildly to a shelf behind him. “I refined the contraption a bit since we last talked, ended up usin’ a Darabadian scope instead of one of ours, as it had more magnification. 

“You’ll ‘ave to go’n sight ‘er in, but this should make that lass beside ya’ even more terrifying than she already is…” 

Leaning over, the ancient Dwarf handed Sam an odd, hinged contraption with a scope attached to the top. 

“Henfri, your rifle?” Sam asked, pointing to a small patch that was cleared off on one of the workbenches. “Did you manage to figure out the magazines, Ironleg?”

“Mmmn, those were a… bit more complex to figure out, but yes. Right now, I’ve only four of ‘em.” 

“More than enough.” Sam nodded affirmatively to the man as he pulled a wooden box off the shelf that rattled as it moved. 

Henfri set her weapon down with a thud on the spot, looking to Sam with a curious brow raised. 

Sam set everything down beside the rifle, and chuckled. 

“Oh yeah, this is gonna work out just fine.” 

Then, he got to work. 

After racking the bolt to make sure the rifle was clear, he pressed down on a small metal tab, releasing the box of ammo on the side of the rifle. Then, he slotted the odd contraption Ironleg had made into it, wrapping the hinged piece of metal around to the other side and closing a robust clasp. 

It felt loose, so he undid the clasp, tightened a bolt several turns, and secured it again with far more effort. 

“Ehrr, there we go,” he groaned, straining with the torque required to close it. “Now, for the final touch.”

Sam pulled out several rounds of the magic-penetrating rounds from the ammo box, and began to load them into one of the magazines from the box. 

Apparently, they were slightly-redesigned magazines from a heavy repeating cannon that used the same ammunition type as Henfri’s rifle. Each held seven of the beer-bottle sized rounds. 

Grinning proudly, he rocked it into place on the side of Procjze, and racked the bolt, hearing the satisfying tactile report of a round chambering, then being cast out the other side of the weapon. 

“What is this?” Henfri inquired in an enthusiastic tone. “What have you made for me, Captain?” 

“Honestly, it’s not just for you, Henfri - but you do get to try out the prototype.” Sam answered, stepping back from the weapon and indicating for Henfri to inspect it. “We have a dozen or so AMR gunners left in the Regiment, and from what I’ve seen, their effective range isn’t hindered so much by the round or the weapon itself, but mainly by the lack of magnification. 

“I think this fixes the problem. It seems obvious to me, so I can’t really figure out why no one has tried it before, but - eh we’ll see what happens.”

Henfri ran her hand down from the barrel of the weapon, to the new attachment, and then the buttstock. Snatching it up, she ran the action once, then twice, launching shells out the side that clattered noisily on the workbench. 

“With this… I may be able to surpass even Sergeant Noiesjel.” Henfri murmured with awe in her voice. Then, she racked the bolt once more, removed the magazine, and set the weapon back on the workbench. “I am curious though, why me? I imagine you have… plans, giving me a gift such as this.” 

“I do.” Sam noted with a nod. “But we’ll talk more about that in a bit. Mr. Ironleg, do you have anything else for me?” 

“Heh,” the old man chuckled when Sam turned to him, displaying a broad smirk. “Oh you bet your finest copper I do, lad.

“I haven’ been able to get ‘em up to snuff for your rifle yet, but for a pistol I’ve managed it.” 

The man picked up two handguns next, both of them equipped with massive suppressors. 

Sam chuckled as he accepted the weapons, passing one to Henfri. She cocked her head at it, but took it nontheless. 

“You’re a gift to Lenit, Mr. Ironleg.” Sam thanked the man, before herding Henfri out of the room - still staring at her weapons.

Henfri was silent as they walked through the streets of Gerra, the rumbling sounds of distant battle echoing between the claustrophobic buildings in a haunting way. Eventually, he brought her to the regimental shooting range, which was really just a long, straight avenue that backed up against one of the walls that they’d sectioned off. 

Often, it was empty now, with all the men who would be training on it either frantically resting, or on the line. 

Turning this way and that, he made sure the coast was clear, then racked the action of the pistol Ironleg had given him. He aimed it down to the targets, and fired. 

It wasn’t exactly quiet, but it was a far sight better than a bare muzzle. 

With a smirk, he turned to Henfri and pointed his finger down at the sandbag line. 

“Go ahead, let’s get her zeroed.” 

“There is no one here now.” Henfri noted, setting the rifle down at the line, but not getting behind it. Instead, she turned to face Sam. “What are you thinking? There is something on your mind, and I wish to hear it.”

“I’ve been thinking, the times I’ve come out on top in this world is when I don’t  play into other people’s expectations. Frankly, the command staff have the strategy for holding the city well in hand, and my skills would be better served somewhere else.” 

Henfri crossed her arms under her chest and seemed to wait for him to continue. 

“Instead of waiting for them to come to us, I want to fuck with them. Your rifle is part of that. We’re gonna be sneaking behind their lines in small teams, hunting their officers, poising their food, gathering intelligence.” Sam explained before he remembered a description that Henfri had used previously. “The end goal is for us to be spies that fight like shock troops.” 

That got Henfri’s attention. 

A malicious smile spread across her face as she cracked her neck this way and that. 

“This… mmmmn, this brings me joy.”